


The Deception Curve

by amfiguree



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's very little Arthur trusts in the dreamscape, and he never thought he'd have to take himself off that list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deception Curve

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork done by the ever-amazing ciudad on livejournal. Honest-to-god, it is entirely likely I would have given up on this story way, way early in the game if ciudad hadn't been there tempting me with her gorgeous, unbeatable art. She is fantastic beyond the telling of it, you guys, and there are no words that can do her talent or her amazing, giving, TIME-CRUNCH-PRODUCING SELF justice. You should all run (like the wind, bullseye!) to see the rest of her stunning, stunning artwork [here](http://ciudad.livejournal.com/56087.html). And then slather her with all the love she deserves.

 

 

 

 

"I told you," Cobb says that night, after a wholesome dinner of frozen pizza, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper at Philippa. "It wasn't on the list."  
  
"We get celery sticks every week, Daddy," she huffs. "It shouldn't have to _be_ on the list."  
  
"I should ban celery sticks from this household," Cobb says decisively. "Food is supposed to give you energy, not use it. Celery isn't nutritious."  
  
It's an old argument by now, and Arthur has to hide his smile in his mug when Phil just leans over to press a kiss to Cobb's forehead. "Dad," she says patiently, "if you stop me from having celery sticks, Arthur's just going to start buying brussell sprouts."   
  
"Arthur has better taste than that," Cobb counters, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Arthur likes eating healthy," Phil says, loftily.   
  
"Arthur," Arthur corrects, "is not getting involved."  
  
"You say that now," Phil laughs, and Arthur feels warmth pool in his stomach when Cobb joins in. But all that warmth vanishes when they're interrupted by a quiet knock on their backdoor.  
  
It's Yusuf.  
  
Arthur looks up from his coffee, sobering immediately. Across the table from him, Cobb does the same. "Honey," he says, but Philippa's already sighing and rolling her eyes as she stands. "I know, I know, I'm too young for grown-up talk." She eyes Cobb sharply. "But _you_ should know that Mr. Horan thinks I'm totally old enough to join the adult table. Unless you're talking about drugs. Or guns. Or--"  
  
"Philippa," Cobb interrupts, sternly. "Goodnight."  
  
"Fine," Philippa says, scrunching her nose at him. "Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Yusuf. Night, Arthur."   
  
"Night, Phil," Arthur says.  
  
"Goodnight, Philippa," Yusuf echoes, with a half-smile. It drops from his face once Philippa's shut the door behind her. "Six weeks," he says, matter-of-factly, as he comes into the kitchen, skipping the pleasantries entirely.  
  
Cobb and Arthur share a look.  
  
"Six weeks?" Cobb repeats.  
  
"Just about," Yusuf affirms, catching Arthur's eye. "There's been rumbling over the past few days, and I received a copy of Payne's flight itinerary this evening."  
  
"All right, then," Cobb says, spreading his hands, all business now. "It's about time we take another look at those blueprints."  
  
Below the table, Arthur's hands close into fists as he nods. "It's about time."   
  
  
  
They spend most of the night discussing details - timing, locations, manpower - and then Yusuf heads home to bed, and Cobb has to leave to catch a flight to New York.   
  
"Just for a couple of days," Cobb says, as he adjusts his tie. Arthur quashes the urge to fix it for him. "We'll work out the rest of the plan when I get back?"  
  
"We have six weeks," Arthur says, pushing the coffee pot across the kitchen counter so Cobb can fill his tumbler. "There's still time."  
  
He doesn't think about the look Yusuf had given him the night before.  
  
"And you'll call if--"  
  
"Are we going to act like I've never done this before?" Arthur asks.  
  
Cobb ducks his head a little, laughing, and Arthur follows him down the hall to the front door. "No, you're right," Cobb says. "You're right. You'll be fine." He pauses in the doorway to pick up his briefcase, then turns to Arthur with a half-smile, indulgent and sheepish all at once. "So you'll call, right?"  
  
Arthur rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches despite himself. "You're going to be late."  
  
"Yeah," Cobb says, with another small laugh. "I'll see you in a few days."  
  
Arthur nods, and watches Cobb disappear out the door. He stands there a moment longer, watching the empty space. _A year ago_ , he thinks. _A year ago..._  
  
A low rumble in the distance distracts him, then, a groan in the sky, almost like thunder. It takes a second for Arthur to place it.  
  
"Dammit," he says. Because Yusuf is right; he's out of time. Six weeks--  
  
But then the front door swings open again, and Arthur raises his head to see Cobb filling up the doorway. He raises an eyebrow. "Cobb? What did you forget?"   
  
"Arthur," Cobb says, and Arthur only has a second to register the heat in his expression before Cobb's moving, covering the distance between them in two quick steps. Then he's slanting his lips over Arthur's, soft and quick, and Arthur barely has time to react before Cobb's pulling away again, wearing a low, intimate smile. "So you'll call?" Cobb asks, quietly.   
  
Arthur's laugh is more breath than sound, and it comes out rough and shaky. "Cobb," he says. "You're going to be late."   
  
  
  
_Six weeks,_ Arthur thinks numbly, standing alone in the corridor after Cobb has gone. _Six weeks_.  
  
His mouth is still burning.  
  
  
  
"You let him leave," Yusuf says, when he comes over, later. It's not a question.  
  
"Yes," Arthur says, putting a newly-rinsed plate in the sink. He's been washing the dishes for over an hour, calm and methodical, but it's done nothing to take away the fire hiding under his skin. It's done nothing to stop him from thinking about - from wondering _why_ , why _now_ , what does Cobb want, will it happen again, will they--  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says, frustrated. " _Why_? We have six weeks to implement our plan. He should be here. He _needs_ to be here."  
  
"He has work," Arthur says, simply, wiping his hands on the dishtowel as he crosses the kitchen to Cobb's desk.   
  
"He has work," Yusuf echoes, blankly. "What on _earth_ could be possibly be doing here?" And then understanding dawns, and Arthur sees Yusuf shake his head from the corner of his eye. "You haven't told him."   
  
"No," Arthur says, without looking up from the blueprints Cobb left behind. (Blueprints they don't actually need, he reminds himself.)  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says. "I heard the music again today."  
  
"I know," Arthur says. "I heard it too."  
  
"So you know that doesn't give us a lot of time," Yusuf presses. "You'd make this easier on all of us if you just _told_ him what was going on."   
  
"I don't need to be lectured," Arthur says. "I know what the situation is."  
  
"Then why does it feel like I'm the only one who's worried about the timeline?" Yusuf demands. "Arthur--"   
  
"I'm going to check on James," Arthur says tersely, pushing back from the table before Yusuf can finish. "It's past his bedtime."  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf tries again. "Leave it be. We need to talk about this, and James is just--"  
  
"He's just a _child_ ," Arthur interrupts. "I'm not going to pretend he doesn't exist."  
  
Yusuf shakes his head. "So you're just going to pretend he's real?"  
  
Arthur stops at the doorway, but he doesn't turn around. "I just - I need more time."  
  
"Well, you don't have it," Yusuf says. "In a couple of weeks, Cobb's going to find out that Payne is just a cover story, whether you tell him or not."   
  
"I know," Arthur says, pinching the bridge of his nose.   
  
"We had a plan, Arthur," Yusuf says. "Remember?"  
  
"Don't patronize me," Arthur snaps. "Of course I fucking remember."   
  
He does remember. He remembers everything about that flight.   
  
The way he'd barely even looked at the flight attendant when she approached him during that final stretch; the way she said, "Twenty minutes till we land, sir. Do you need immigration forms?"  
  
"No," he said. "Thank you."  
  
He should've known her name. He's a professional and he's supposed to know these things, _would've_ known, if he'd had capacity then to concentrate on anything that hadn't been counting minutes in his head, _seconds_ , his eyes trained on Cobb the entire time.  
  
That's how he'd missed Saito waking up.  
  
That's how he'd been watching when Cobb hadn't.  
  
Arthur shuts his eyes like that might ward off the memory.  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says again.  
  
"I remember," Arthur says, and this time his voice comes out even. "I'll keep working on it." He lets out a long, slow breath. "I'm going to check on James. Help yourself to the tea."  
  
When he returns to the kitchen, later, he isn't surprised to find Yusuf gone. The pot of tea sits on the kitchen counter where he'd left it, billowing steam, untouched.  
  
  
  
Cobb calls before Arthur can that evening, while Arthur's setting the table for dinner. The kids fight over who gets to use the phone first, and Arthur has to duck his head to make himself look away. He goes back to stirring the pasta, fighting down the sense of contentment he can feel rising in his chest.   
  
Then he feels a tug at his sleeve, hears Phil say, "Arthur," and he blinks his eyes open when she presses the phone into his hand, brings it up to his ear without thinking. "Cobb?"  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says. His voice crackles, small and tinny over the line, but there's so much warmth infused in his tone that Arthur almost shuts his eyes again. "I just wanted to check in, make sure everything's okay."  
  
Arthur isn't supposed to still be thinking about that morning, the Cobb-shaped space he's felt, acutely, all day, but for a moment he's tempted to ask, to _make_ Cobb tell him what he's thinking.   
  
But Philippa's still standing there, watching him with Cobb's eyes, smiling with Cobb's mouth, and Arthur feels a small, familiar tug in his chest. "In case I'd set the house on fire and the kids forgot to mention it?" he says instead.   
  
Cobb laughs, and the heat in it leaks into Arthur's blood. "More like in case they'd talked you into doing their Math assignments for them again."  
  
"I've handled crowds of men twice my size, Cobb," Arthur says. "I think I can manage two tiny humans."  
  
He side-steps James' sneak attack as he speaks, but turns and catches him before he tumbles into the stove. "I am not tiny!" James protests, though he doesn't put up much of a struggle in Arthur's arms. "Daddy! Tell Arthur I'm not tiny!"  
  
Phil just rolls her eyes and takes over stirring the pot of pasta from Arthur so he can juggle both James and the phone without dropping either one. Cobb's laughing again as he says, "As long as Arthur's got you doing your homework, I'm not telling him anything."  
  
"We're fine," Arthur says, smiling as James groans into his shoulder. "No more calls to Mrs. Tomlinson's office for this one." He spares a sly glance at Philippa over his shoulder. "Or hiding stray animals in the bedroom for Phil."  
  
"Arthur!" Phil complains. "It was _one_ time."  
  
"And the last time," Arthur says, mock gravely.   
  
"Never again," Cobb agrees.  
  
Phil sticks her tongue out at him, and Arthur holds his smile back as James leans over to say into the phone, "Don't worry, Daddy. We're fine. Arthur's got it all under control."  
  
"I know," Cobb says, in a tone Arthur's only ever heard in relation to Mal. "He takes care of everything."  
  
  
  
Arthur doesn't think much about it till after he puts the kids to bed that night.  
  
He's in the living room, straightening the furniture and clearing the coffee table of crayons and rubber bands, running through his itinerary for the next day (make lunch for the kids, get them to the bus stop on time, do the laundry, fix the broken lamp in Phil's room, make sure James isn't late for baseball practice) when it hits him.  
  
He hadn't thought about telling Cobb once that entire phone conversation, had spent it instead taking care of things, talking about things, places, _people_ who don't really exist, made to-do lists for children who aren't really there.  
  
 _Let it be,_ he hears Yusuf say.   
  
"Fuck," Arthur says, crumpling a paper napkin in disgust.  
  
He stays up late that night, watching infomercials and re-runs of _Days of Our Lives_. The pictures are fuzzy, and the dialogue jumps, awkward cuts that don't make sense. They're a mish-mash of episodes he's already seen, things he remembers from some of the long-haul jobs him and Cobb had taken before--before, and Arthur thinks, tiredly, that this is why none of them watch TV.  
  
 _They're just projections,_ he tells himself, when he folds into his bed at seven that morning, eyes already at half-mast. _They can miss a day of school. They're just--_  
  
Down the hall, James' alarm go off, then Phil's.  
  
 _Goddammit_.  
  
But it only takes a second of hesitation before Arthur's up again, shuffling down the hallway to roll the kids out of bed. They come easily, like always, two lolling sleepyheads flanking him on either side as they trek slowly towards the bathroom, and Arthur has to keep one arm around each of them to keep them from falling over.  
  
"You're better at this than Daddy is," James says blearily, later, curled around the edge of the sink. Arthur only narrowly rescues the tube of toothpaste that slips out of his hand.   
  
"Way wehher," Philippa adds, around her toothbrush, still leaning against him, half-asleep.  
  
That's when Arthur knows that Yusuf's wrong; because these kids - they're not _just_ anything.  
  
  
  
Yusuf's still maintaining complete radio silence when Cobb gets back, a few days later. The kids have already left for school by the time Cobb gets in, and he looks so worn out that Arthur goes to make him a fresh pot of coffee almost before he's made it all the way inside the house.   
  
"Thanks," Cobb says, with a low groan, when Arthur sets a mug down in front of him. "God, I could sleep for a week."  
  
"I take it the trip didn't go well."  
  
"No," Cobb says, stifling a yawn. "No, it went fine. It's just been a long couple of days."  
  
"Meetings run long?"  
  
Cobb shrugs. "Something like that."   
  
"Hmm," Arthur says, noncommittally, as he sinks into the chair across from Cobb. He doesn't press for details; he knows when there are things Cobb won't talk about.   
  
Cobb doesn't seem inclined to talk about what happened the other morning either, or to repeat it, and Arthur wonders briefly if this is going to be just another item on the list of Things-Cobb-Won't-Discuss. He pushes the thought, and the pang that accompanies it, firmly out of his mind.   
  
Because it doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything. It can't.  
  
 _We had a plan,_ he thinks, as he draws a deep breath, sets his jaw. He has to tell Cobb, and he has to tell Cobb now, before he changes his mind, or loses his resolve, or--  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says, watching him with too-dark eyes.  
  
Arthur swallows. _Now,_ he thinks.  
  
But he can't think of the right way to say, "You didn't wake up, Cobb, and I came to get you."   
  
He can still see it, though. Every detail: the plane landing; Fischer leaving; Cobb remaining motionless in his chair.   
  
"He came for me," Saito had said. "He convinced me that I was still dreaming."  
  
"And then he convinced you to let him shoot you first," Eames supplied, shaking his head as he releases a long breath. "The conniving bastard."  
  
"I don't understand," Ariadne said helplessly, as the team gathered around Cobb. Arthur stayed where he was, seated and watchful. "Why wouldn't he come back? There's nothing left for him there. Mal's gone."  
  
She sounded surprised; Arthur wasn't.   
  
"I don't know, darling," Eames said. "And I don't fancy wasting my time making guesses about what might have happened. What I want to know is what we plan to do about it." He glanced over at Yusuf, who was taking Cobb's pulse. "Yusuf, how long till the sedative's out of his bloodstream?"  
  
"The chemicals will show up if he's tested within the next twenty-four hours," Yusuf said, as he jotted a couple of words down in his notebook.   
  
"We can't bloody well leave him here, then, can we?" Eames said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "They'd bring us all in for a round of questioning."   
  
"My men could take him to the nearest safe-house," Saito offered gravely, his eyebrows knit.   
  
"So we can all be charged with transporting a known felon when they get caught?" Eames said. "I'd rather skip that bit, Saito, if it's all the same to you."  
  
"We can't leave him," Ariadne exploded. "We can't take him with us, we can't pin it on the air stewardess because she'd just give the cops our names. I'm not seeing a whole lot of options here."   
  
"Perhaps--" Yusuf began.  
  
"Will he be able to come home?" Arthur interrupted, calmly, and looked up at them all unflinchingly when they startled, as if they'd forgotten he was there. "If Cobb does wake up, is he going to get past airport security?"  
  
Saito didn't hesitate. "Yes. I have made the call; Cobb's records are clean."   
  
Arthur nodded, glancing briefly back at Cobb. "How much time can you buy me?"   
  
Ariadne made a quiet, choked sound. "What? Arthur--"  
  
"Ten minutes," Saito said. "I will try for more, if you require."  
  
"All right then," Arthur said, and finally stood to retrieve his PASIV device.   
  
"What exactly is it that you intend to do?" Eames asked, as Arthur pulled a cotton swab out of the case and swiped it over Cobb's wrist, then his own. "Stroll into Limbo and drag him back here?"   
  
"If I must," Arthur said, reaching for a fresh set of needles.  
  
"It's common knowledge you've done a number of ridiculous things in your time, Arthur," Eames said. "But this is borderline suicidal."   
  
"And that is precisely why I'm not asking you to join me, Eames," Arthur replied, evenly.   
  
"Arthur," Ariadne pleaded.   
  
"It's time for you and Eames to deplane, Ariadne. If we all stay behind, it's going to look suspicious."   
  
"What about Saito?"  
  
Saito shook his head before Arthur could answer for him. "Cobb saved my life," he said. "And I can mediate with the authorities from the plane. I will stay."   
  
"All right," Yusuf said. "So I'll just--"  
  
"About that," Arthur interrupted. "I'm going to need someone to go down with me."   
  
Yusuf looked gobsmacked. "And you think _I'm_ the right choice?"  
  
"Yes," Arthur said. "You're steady, reliable, and good on your feet in a tough situation."  
  
"Well then, we'd best be going," Eames said abruptly. His tone was blasé, his posture was not. "I look forward to telling my future employers about the men I pulled off inception with, never mind the fact that half of them will have lost their minds."  
  
But Arthur didn't have time for theatrics. He didn't even look up when Eames let out a low, irked sound and towed Ariadne away. He was still watching Yusuf. "You want to push the boundaries of science?" he goaded. "This is the way to do it."  
  
Yusuf wavered, one hand already half-stretched towards his duffel bag. "Is this really the best course of action, Arthur?"   
  
"I don't need approval, Yusuf," Arthur said then, sharply. "I need a partner."  
  
"Yes," Yusuf said, quietly, "But I have had my share of adventure, and real-life experimentation seems unlikely to become my forte. There are many aspects of Somnacin that I can study from Mombasa, away from the dangers of--"  
  
"You can have my share of the payout," Arthur said flatly. "All of it."  
  
"Ah," Yusuf said, as he rolled up his sleeves. "Well, there's an old adage about science often requiring a certain amount of risk."  
  
Arthur nodded, passing Yusuf a needle before sliding one under Cobb's skin, then another into his own. "Saito--"  
  
"I will activate the device," Saito said, already sinking to his knees in preparation.   
  
"Three minutes," Arthur said, because he didn't know anything about Limbo. He didn't know anything about anything. "Use the music so we know when the kick's coming."   
  
Saito nodded solemnly. "Good luck, Arthur--"  
  
  
  
"--Arthur?" Cobb is saying, when Arthur starts paying attention again. "Are you all right?"  
  
No, Arthur thinks. There's no easy way to say any of that.  
  
For as long as he can remember, his priorities have been the job first, Cobb second, and self-preservation an optional third.   
  
When he says, "Everything's fine, Cobb," he wonders when all of that changed.  
  
"It's too early to be attempting conversation," he adds, looking away. "You should take a shower, put on some fresh clothes. I'll make breakfast."  
  
Cobb hesitates for a second, but then he nods and gets to his feet, and Arthur tries not to stiffen when Cobb lays a hand on his shoulder as he passes him on his way to the door. But Cobb doesn't say anything, just lingers for a moment, and Arthur presses his knuckles against his eyes when he feels Cobb's hand fall away.  
  
There's the sound of a door closing, and Arthur breathes the silence in, relieved to be alone with his thoughts, however briefly.   
  
Then Cobb says, "Arthur," very quietly, and Arthur startles. Cobb's right there when he looks up, and Arthur sees that warmth again, that unexpected tenderness, just like the other morning. Despite himself, despite _everything_ , Arthur feels his stomach flip.  
  
 _This,_ he thinks, _this is a fucking terrible idea._   
  
But he lifts his head when Cobb leans down, parts his lips when Cobb slides their mouths together, makes a low, helpless noise when Cobb presses closer, insistent and wanting.  
  
Then Cobb pulls away, and Arthur lets out a harsh, ragged breath.  
  
"It's good to be home," Cobb murmurs, fingers light on Arthur's jaw, and there is nothing Arthur can do to immunize himself from the slow burn that ignites under his skin.  
  
  
  
Over breakfast, Cobb asks about the job. "How's the plan coming along? All we managed to talk about the other night was the first level, and we definitely need at least one more."  
  
"Well," Arthur stalls. He almost wishes he'd been caught off-guard, instead of being purposefully unprofessional.  
  
Cobb frowns, putting down his fork. "Arthur," he says. "We have less than six weeks."  
  
"I know," Arthur says. Yusuf's warnings are a constant, low hum in the back of his mind, and time is all he can think about lately. He should be using his to come up with ways to tell Cobb the truth, but instead he's spent most of it trying to devise a plan for the Payne job that doesn't seem half-hearted. His efforts have proven futile, however, since he's been constantly distracted by the memory of Saito saying, grimly, "Bring Cobb back," before he went under, then by the memory of waking up alone, in an unfamiliar landscape.  
  
The solitude had given him the minute he'd needed to take in his surroundings: a neighborhood of half-formed glass buildings, jagged cobblestone and marble beneath his feet, the sky so blue it hurt to look at. Older architecture intermingled with the new, a castle, a church, a graveyard. So much of it said _Cobb_ that Arthur could almost imagine they'd built this world together.  
  
Then he spotted Yusuf in the distance, amongst a few projections, all of them taking in the view, bemused.  
  
"It's quiet in here," he said to Yusuf, when he made his way over.   
  
"Apparently, my subconscious prefers flight to fight," Yusuf replied, still looking around, and Arthur had been unabashedly grateful when Yusuf hadn't said more.  
  
He made sure to get a clean hit when he clipped Yusuf over the side of his head with his Beretta.  
  
"I haven't had time," Arthur hears himself say, then, as he shakes the memory off. "It's been a busy week. I thought we'd get the rest of it fleshed out together."  
  
Cobb watches Arthur for another long second, unconvinced. Arthur returns his gaze, level and steady. Eventually, Cobb nods. "I'll see if Yusuf's around," he says. "We should get to work."  
  
Yusuf _is_ around, of course, and Arthur busies himself brewing the best tea in the house there is. (Yusuf's favorite, naturally, since Yusuf's the one who dreamed it up.) The gesture is in equal parts wanting to make amends and staving off the guilt of not telling Yusuf about whatever it is he's doing - _done_ , because it's not a pattern, it's not established, it's not anything - with Cobb.   
  
He knows what Yusuf would say, though, if he learns about it. It's nothing Arthur doesn't already know, even less what he wants to hear, so he makes tea.   
  
It pays off, because Yusuf softens the moment he steps into the kitchen and the scent registers. "Arthur," he says, when Arthur passes him a cup.  
  
"Yusuf," Arthur nods.  
  
"We were talking about what to do for the second level," Cobb says, oblivious to the ending of their impasse. "Do you have any ideas?"  
  
Yusuf shoots Arthur another look over Cobb's shoulder, but he seems appeased enough by the tea to let it go, at least temporarily. "Well," he says gamely, "Considering Payne's love for singing, we could think about making the second level a karaoke lounge. I could tailor the mix such that his blood pressure would elevate to disorienting levels when he perceives sounds of high amplitudes."  
  
Cobb spreads his palms over the blueprints, slow and reverent, and Arthur feels a strange mix of pride and relief at getting to watch him work again, getting to watch him _build_. "I think that could work," Cobb says. "Arthur?"  
  
Just like that, things click into place. Like a well-oiled machine, Arthur steps into Cobb's space, and points out four different things he can already see potentially going wrong.   
  
The three of them spend the better part of the week with their heads bent over Cobb's desk, editing floor plans, arguing exit strategies, discussing the merits of various cons, both classic and new.  
  
Yusuf isn't any less vocal than either of them, but he shoots Arthur these looks every so often, a sharp reminder Arthur chooses to ignore.   
  
It's the closest to normal Arthur's felt since they've been here.  
  
  
  
They end up losing most of their days to blueprints and the dreamspace, but the nights are always the children's.   
  
They start by having dinner together, sometimes with Yusuf, mostly without, and after they migrate to the living room carpet, curling up against the couch, or on the floor in front of the fireplace, James snug in Cobb's lap, Phil's head tucked against Arthur's side. They talk about their day, like they've been doing for the past seven months, share smiles and inside jokes and easy affection in a way Arthur hadn't thought Cobb remembered anymore.  
  
If working with Cobb is the most normal he's felt since they've been here, this is--  
  
This is what Arthur's fighting not to get used to, what he's fighting even harder not to want.  
  
It's hard enough when it feels this close, all of it, but it's almost impossible when it's just him and Cobb after the kids doze off, and Cobb cuts Arthur off before he can suggest they take them back to their rooms.   
  
"Slow down, Arthur," Cobb says, his eyes flashing bright and blue. "They're fine where they are."  
  
Arthur feels Philippa snuffle against him at that, a cross between a sigh and a murmur, and Cobb's laugh is warm and unhurried, nothing like the smiles he'd given in the days after Mal, each one surprised and involuntary, a stolen pleasure he didn't deserve. Cobb's fingers brush Arthur's arm as he reaches to push a strand of hair back from Philippa's face, voice low and tender as he murmurs, "I don't think you know how much they love you, Arthur."   
  
And Arthur prides himself on his restraint, has even made a bit of a name for himself in the business because of it, but it's been a week of pretending not to notice every time Cobb enters the room; a week of pretending he isn't drinking Cobb's proximity in whenever he can get it; a week of pretending he isn't thinking about the heat of Cobb's skin, of Cobb's mouth, crushed against his own, needy and fervent, and Arthur's not made of stone.  
  
"Cobb," he breathes.   
  
And then he's reaching for Cobb, fisting a hand in his shirt and wrenching him closer, kissing him hard and fast and desperate. Cobb makes a startled noise as he freezes, and Arthur feels his pulse jump, a string of disconnected beats.   
  
He tears himself away. "Cobb," he rasps, pained.   
  
Because he isn't - Cobb doesn't--  
  
Cobb's just staring at him, wide-eyed and confused, and Arthur's throat goes dry. "Arthur," he says, unsteadily. "You're--"  
  
Arthur shakes his head, hard, looking away, and Cobb doesn't finish. For a second, there's nothing but the sound of Cobb's short, shocked breathing, intermingling with the children's, even and unperturbed. "I'm sorry," Arthur says eventually, into the silence, when it feels like he can speak without his throat closing up. Cobb's still watching him when he raises his head, and Arthur can't -- he focuses on a point just over Cobb's shoulder. "I must have misunderstood. I thought--"  
  
Cobb kisses him before he can finish his sentence. It's brief and careful, nothing like it was in the hallway, or the living room, and it jolts something hot and _aching_ in Arthur's stomach. He nearly follows Cobb's movements when Cobb pulls back, chasing the heat of Cobb's mouth.  
  
"Cobb," he says. It's quiet, but there's no missing the hitch in his voice.  
  
James stirs, then, whining in discontent as he's jarred by Cobb's sudden motion, and Cobb's eyes are hooded when he says, "It's getting late. I should put them to bed."  
  
"I can--"  
  
Cobb shakes his head as he gathers James up, not quite meeting Arthur's gaze. "I'll manage," he says, rubbing a patient hand over Philippa's shoulder till she gets to her feet, groggily, already wilting into his side. "Goodnight, Arthur."  
  
It takes a second for Arthur to shake himself enough to say, "Goodnight," but by then the door is swinging shut, and Cobb's already gone.  
  
  
  
Arthur doesn't sleep a wink.  
  
  
  
He's put on a pot of coffee and has already moved on to flipping pancakes on the stove when Philippa and James shuffle into the kitchen at seven-thirty the next morning. Cobb's right behind them, pulling out chairs at the table for them to topple into. Both kids are yawning as they pillow their heads in their arms.  
  
"Morning," Cobb says neutrally, as he pours himself a cup of coffee.   
  
"Good morning," Arthur says, nodding his thanks when Cobb pulls a stack of plates out of the cabinet and sets them on the countertop.  
  
"It's so not good," James complains, with a groan. "Mornings are the worstest."  
  
"The worst worstest," Phil agrees tiredly. "I never learn _anything_ in the morning. Can't we just be home-schooled, Daddy?"  
  
Cobb's shoulders seem to lose some of their tension as he joins them at the table. "Sure you can, sweetheart," he says, mock-seriously. "I just have to find you a couple of tutors and a way to pay them enough money to get them here."  
  
"So that's a no," Phil says, disappointedly.  
  
"But we don't need tutors, Dad!" James points out. "We have Arthur! He's the smartesest. He knows _everything_. He could teach us!"  
  
Arthur's startled into a laugh. But he schools his features as he dishes out the pancakes and says, "Flattery is not going to get you out of school, James Cobb."  
  
"But Arthur!"  
  
"And now we are tabling this discussion," Cobb says, shaking his head. "Eat your pancakes. The bus is going to be here any minute."   
  
James huffs, but he barely waits two seconds to start wolfing down his breakfast without any complaints. Arthur's knuckles brush Cobb's as he sets a fourth plate of pancakes on the table. Cobb stays focused on his own plate, and Arthur doesn't press.  
  
He's only just slipped into his seat when James sits up and announces, "I'm done! Come on, Phil, hurry up! Let's go!"  
  
"What?" Phil protests, as he grabs her hand and begins tugging her out of her seat. "James, I'm not even--ugh! James!"  
  
"James!" Cobb calls after them, as Arthur sighs and says, "Phil!"  
  
The only answer they get is a distant, chimed chorus of, "Bye Daddy! Bye Arthur!" and then the sound of the front door, opening and shutting.  
  
It's quiet for a moment, and then Arthur looks over at Philippa's half-eaten pancakes. His mouth twitches. "Home-school," he says.   
  
"Oh god," Cobb says, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "How serious do you think she was?"  
  
"I don't think you want me to answer that," Arthur warns, barely suppressing his smile. None of them had believed Phil was serious about her new vegan diet till after she'd spent two months eating nothing but fresh fruit and celery sticks.  
  
"I'm doomed," Cobb groans. "I don't even know where they get these ideas."  
  
 _I do,_ Arthur thinks suddenly, unbidden and unwelcome, and his good mood evaporates. He can hear the discomfort in his own voice when he says, "Cobb--"   
  
Cobb must hear it too, because he averts his eyes and pushes away from the table with an abrupt, "I'm going to take a shower."  
  
"Cobb," Arthur says again, but Cobb's already disappeared, and Arthur drops his cutlery onto his plate exasperatedly. "Jesus Christ."  
  
He's lost his appetite, so he stands to collect the dishes, trying to fend off the annoyance he can feel building in his veins. This dance is old-hat by now, Arthur being shot down till he finds the right angle to approach Cobb with. "You can't teach an old dog new tricks," Yusuf likes to say, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating now than it was when they first started working together seven years ago.  
  
He lets out a breath, and stacks Phil's still-full plate on top of his own. He hears footsteps as he reaches for James' knife, and then Cobb slides in behind him. They're so close that Arthur can feel the steady rise and fall of Cobb's chest against his back, the warmth of Cobb's arm where it's brushing against his elbow, the way Cobb exhales, hot on his cheek. Arthur swallows, hard. They stand like that for a second, unmoving, on the cusp of touching but not quite making it there, till eventually Cobb puts a careful hand on Arthur's hip and squeezes it. "Thanks for breakfast," he murmurs.  
  
Arthur feels like the ground's been swept out from under him.  
  
"You're welcome," he says, to the table, when it feels like he's in control of himself again. But when Arthur turns around, the kitchen's empty, like Cobb was never there at all.   
  
Clearly, Cobb's decided they're not going to talk about this. But Cobb isn't pretending it isn't happening. And Arthur knows him well enough to know that he isn't asking Arthur to pretend, either.  
  
It's a good enough start.   
  
  
  
Arthur's in the garden helping James collect worms for a science project a couple of mornings later when he hears a familiar thunderclap in the distance.  
  
"What's that?" James asks.  
  
(Cobb's already left for work. He'd hovered at the door for a second, wearing a small, uncertain frown, and when Arthur said, "What?" he'd leaned in and kissed him, then left Arthur staring after him as he slipped out without a word.)  
  
"Just some thunder," Arthur says, shaking his head and getting on his knees. "Looks like we're going to get some rain today."   
  
There's a small voice sounding off in the back of his mind, the one that warns him when something's about to blow up in his face.  
  
Arthur ignores it.   
  
  
  
Ignoring the escalating tension in the house, however, is not so easy. And acting like he isn't affected by it is infinitely harder.   
  
He's wondered in the past, what it would be like having Cobb's attention. He never dwelled on it, though, chalking it up to imagination he couldn't afford with his job as Cobb's point man, but now--  
  
Now Arthur feels Cobb's eyes on him all the time, a heat-seeking missile, and when he looks up from helping James with his homework, or from tucking Phil into bed, or from cleaning his gun (because it might not need it, but he needs to stay in practice), Cobb is still there. He meets Arthur's gaze levelly, a cautious, smoldering heat in his eyes, and Arthur feels it crackle in the air between them, heavy and charged, feels a blood-burning need settle deep in his gut, a sleeping beast.   
  
They share clandestine moments where they can, too brief kisses behind the bathroom door or in the quiet of the hallway while the children are gone that do nothing to quell the ache hiding under Arthur's skin. He feels nineteen again, re-learning the basics in stealth combat, and it's distracting, to say the least. Arthur almost burns dinner twice in the next week alone, trying not to turn away from the oven to demand Cobb stop watching him unless he plans to _do_ something about it.  
  
But that's an invisible barrier they can't seem to cross, one Arthur never thought he _could_ , and the newfound knowledge coupled with their crippling inability is cruel and unusual punishment.  
  
It might have been easier on them if Cobb was the kind of person inclined to give in to the friction they clearly feel when they cross paths around the house. Unfortunately, they both know by now that Cobb doesn't deal with stress in a manner anywhere close to approximating "normal".  
  
Which is why Arthur isn't surprised when Cobb chooses to spend the next afternoon he gets off rehashing their plans for the Payne job.  
  
"How do we look on time?"  
  
"Payne's ride to the convention from the airport will only take half an hour," Arthur says, mechanically. "So we'll have to be quick, but it shouldn't be a problem."  
  
"What about the layouts?"  
  
"Yusuf's memorizing the first level, and I'm sure you already know the second."  
  
"And Yusuf's still working on the Somnacin?"  
  
"Cobb," Arthur says. "I don't think he's had any breakthroughs since last night."   
  
"I thought you liked being thorough," Cobb says. It's almost accusatory, and Arthur bristles at the implication.  
  
"I do," he says. "But there's being thorough for the sake of professionalism, and there's using it as an excuse for being difficult."   
  
Cobb turns to look at him coolly, but Arthur isn't fooled for a second. "Are you saying I'm being difficult?"  
  
"Are you saying you're not?" Arthur counters.  
  
"You know," Cobb says, short and clipped, "you're the one who sprung this on me. _You_ came to _me_ , Arthur, five years after pretty much zero contact, and you asked me to do this for you. So I said yes. Because _you asked_. And now you think I'm being difficult?"  
  
Arthur leans back against the wall, arms folded. "With me," he says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I asked you to do this _with_ me," Arthur clarifies, steel in his voice. "And I didn't have to put a gun to your head for you to say yes, Cobb, so don't make it sound like--"  
  
"For god's sake, this isn't about semantics, Arthur!" Cobb snaps. "You fucking knew what you were asking. You _knew_ what I would--"  
  
"I didn't _know_ anything!" Arthur explodes. They're not talking about the job anymore; he isn't sure they ever were. "I didn't know _anything_ , Cobb. When I came here, I had no idea what I was walking into. You could have slammed the door in my face. You could have kicked me out. You could have said _no_." _None of this is real,_ Arthur thinks, wildly, but his throat feels raw, and his fists are clenched by his side. He's given up _so much_ to be here, put everything at stake; he's going all in with chips he doesn't have. "I didn't know you thought - after everything we've done together--"   
  
' _After everything I've risked for you_ ' goes unspoken.  
  
Arthur shakes his head. "I didn't realize you were keeping score."  
  
Cobb makes a low, wild noise at the back of his throat, and suddenly he's lurching forward, crossing the room and bearing down on Arthur as he crushes their mouths together, hot and demanding. Arthur jerks in surprise, but Cobb's got him pinned him to the wall with the warmth of his weight and his palms, hands closed over Arthur's wrists like he intends to keep Arthur exactly where he wants him.   
  
Arthur stays frozen for a moment, but he can't hold onto his anger when Cobb leans into him, closer, unrelenting, and tilts his head for a better angle. Arthur's hands close into fists as Cobb nips at his lower lip, not gentle at all, and he can barely stifle his moan.  
  
"You're so goddamn self-righteous," Cobb says, in the second he takes to catch his breath. "I'm not fucking keeping score--"  
  
"Shut up," Arthur says, breathlessly, wrenching himself out of Cobb's grip so he can fist Cobb's shirt and drag him back down, kissing Cobb till he's dizzy with it, his skin humming everywhere Cobb touches him.  
  
"Maybe," Cobb says then, shakily, eyes falling shut as Arthur arches - _arches_ , Jesus Christ - up into him, "maybe we shouldn't ask Yusuf to join us today."  
  
"I don't," Arthur says thickly, head thrown back against the wall as Cobb sucks a bruise into his skin. "I don't want to be talking about Yusuf right now."  
  
The groan Cobb tries to bite back is all the agreement Arthur needs.   
  
Yusuf is uninvited from most of their meetings after that.   
  
  
  
Arthur isn't surprised the next time Yusuf drops in unannounced, while Arthur's folding the laundry. "I came for tea," Yusuf says pleasantly, when Arthur looks up to see him at the door.  
  
Arthur simply nods. It takes immeasurable effort not to slam the door in Yusuf's face.   
  
"It's been a while since our last meeting," Yusuf adds, conversationally, as Arthur puts the kettle on to boil.   
  
"We've been busy," Arthur says, shortly.  
  
"Hmm," Yusuf says. "Where's Cobb?"  
  
Arthur doesn't turn from the stove. "At work."  
  
"So you haven't told him," Yusuf says, flatly.  
  
Arthur's fingers tighten around the edge of the kitchen counter. "I said I'd handle it."   
  
"There are only twenty days left, Arthur," Yusuf says, already teetering on the dangerous tightrope between aggravated and weary. "You can't keep the Payne excuse up forever. What are you going to tell him when he wants to practice the dreamscape?"  
  
"That I've done it without him," Arthur says, without missing a beat. "And that everything checks out."  
  
Yusuf scoffs. "And he'll be willing to believe that?"   
  
"Yes."  
  
The kettle begins to whistle, then, and Arthur takes it off the stove, reaching unthinkingly for the teacups. It's only when Arthur puts the tea down on the table and pushes the milk and sugar over to him that Yusuf speaks again. "Where's his totem?"  
  
The non-sequitur catches Arthur off-guard. "What?"  
  
Yusuf looks graver than Arthur has ever seen him. "Where's Cobb's totem?"  
  
Arthur falters for a moment, but then he just shakes his head and shrugs. "He told me he lost it years ago. The day he came back from the Fischer job."  
  
Yusuf narrows his eyes. "You never told me that."  
  
"No, I told you it was complicated," Arthur snaps. "If it was that simple, don't you think I would have taken his top and told him to spin it the first day we got here? Jesus. Is this interrogation over yet?"  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says. "There's no need--"  
  
"If you tell me there's no need to get testy," Arthur snarls. "I swear to god--"  
  
Yusuf holds his hands up, placating. "I just want to have this explained to me, that's all. I'm only now finding out that Cobb lost his totem, and--what? That doesn't bother him?"  
  
Arthur draws in a breath as he scrubs a hand over his face, willing himself calm again. "No," he says, at last. "No, it doesn't. You know why? Because he thinks he's awake, Yusuf. I haven't seen Mal at all since we've been here. He isn't looking over his shoulder anymore."   
  
"And he told you this," Yusuf says skeptically.  
  
"No," Arthur admits, hesitantly. "I haven't asked."  
  
He's never planned on it, either. He doesn't probe because he knows Cobb will answer, even if he doesn't want to. Cobb's the best extractor there is, but he's never liked lying, and Arthur respects him enough to keep up the charades, to let Cobb protect his privacy.   
  
Yusuf is watching him in utter confusion when Arthur looks up from his tea. "You haven't asked," Yusuf repeats. "Arthur--why?"  
  
"Because I don't need to," Arthur says. "I've seen it. And I know Cobb. You of all people should understand, Yusuf; this is his reality now."  
  
The bewilderment leaks out of Yusuf's expression, then, and the smile he slants at Arthur is slow and sad. "But it's not ours."  
  
Arthur presses his lips together. Yusuf's cup is untouched, but he stands to refill it anyway, and from his angle it's impossible to miss the way Yusuf's eyebrows knit, or the way his smile evaporates.  
  
"I think you're starting to forget that," Yusuf says, sharply.   
  
Arthur takes an involuntary step back. "What?"  
  
"You're sleeping with him," Yusuf says.   
  
Arthur raises an involuntary hand to his neck, shocked, and feels the faintest twinge of pain. He'd thought the bruise had faded, but he catches a brief glimpse of purple reflected in the kettle he's still holding. Oh _god_.  
  
"How long has this been going on?" Yusuf demands.  
  
"We're not," Arthur says, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yusuf, we're not sleeping together. We're just--"  
  
"Does it matter?" Yusuf says. "What were you _thinking_ , Arthur? We're supposed to be here to rescue Cobb! We've been here a _year_ to make that happen! We've done the work, we've come this far, and we're so close! Would it have been so hard to wait six weeks? This could jeopardize _everything_. Why would you--"  
  
Then Yusuf stops, abruptly, and Arthur feels his heart sink when he sees comprehension dawn on Yusuf's face.  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says, unevenly. "Arthur, Jesus Christ. How long have you been--"  
  
Arthur's throat is tight, and his stomach is churning. He puts the kettle down, turns away so he doesn't have to see the pity on Yusuf's face. "It's not - it doesn't matter. I've got it under control, Yusuf."   
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says, urgently. "You're becoming too invested in this. It's not real. Don't lose yourself here."  
  
"I know," Arthur tells the stove, but it lacks conviction even to his own ears. "I'm handling it."  
  
  
  
"Hey, is everything okay?" Cobb says, later that night. They're in the backyard, both of them lying side-by-side in the grass, just watching the stars. They'd started out a party of four, but James had quickly gotten bored and talked Phil into going inside and teaching him the basic rules of Scrabble. "You've been pretty quiet tonight."  
  
"As opposed to my usually verbose nature?" Arthur says, mustering up a smile he doesn't quite feel.  
  
Cobb huffs a laugh. "You've been quieter than usual tonight," he amends.  
  
"Yeah," Arthur says. "No, yeah, I'm fine. It's one of those days. Just wondering about the choices I've made, if I'm doing the right thing."  
  
"Choices like extraction?" Cobb asks.   
  
"Yeah," Arthur says, watching the shadows flicker over Cobb's side profile. "Choices like that."  
  
"Do you miss it?" Cobb asks. His hands are tucked beneath his head, and his eyes are barely open. It's the most relaxed Arthur's seen him in a long, long time. "Dreaming?"  
  
Arthur should say, "It's hard to, considering I'm living in Limbo."  
  
He should say, "Do you remember how you got here?"  
  
He should say, "It's time to wake up, Cobb."  
  
Instead, he thinks about waking up here, in Limbo, thinks about regaining consciousness only as he'd been swept up onto shore, the grit of sand and sea-salt in his mouth. Beside him, Yusuf had been sitting on his heels, coughing up water. He waved off Arthur's concern, already struggling to stand as he wiped a sleeve over his mouth. "All right," he rasped. "What now?"   
  
Arthur stumbled to his feet as he looked around, taking in their surroundings. His mind felt heavy, sluggish, inching away from him like the falling tide. There was a moment he felt unsure of who he was, _where_ , and then there was nothing but confusion and longing and an aimless, burning desperation settling low in his stomach. For a moment, Arthur was tempted to give in to instinct.   
  
The sun burned, bright and hot, as a building collapsed in the distance.   
  
Arthur breathed.  
  
"Now," he said. "We look for Cobb."   
  
They'd walked a stretch in silence. Arthur had taken in their surroundings, calculating minutes over miles as sand gave way to cobblestone and tar. "Is this all Cobb's?" Yusuf asked, eventually, of the grime-covered walls they passed, and the ivory-glass towers in between. "It looks like--"  
  
"It's Cobb's," Arthur interrupted, without looking at him. He recognized the buildings like a faded re-enactment of a play he once saw. "But Cobb isn't here."  
  
Yusuf didn't ask _how do you know_ , and Arthur didn't explain. "How do we find him?"  
  
Arthur shook his head. "I'll figure something out."  
  
The unease on Yusuf's face had been plain to see, and Arthur hadn't liked the idea of going in blind anymore than Yusuf had. He works best with the definitive, specificity, the hows and whens and whats of execution. He fills in the details, but charting their course has always been Cobb's speciality.  
  
"I'll figure something out," he repeated. "In the meantime, keep an eye out." He smiled, grimly. "This is Cobb's subconscious we're dealing with; the last thing you want to do is let him catch you off-guard."   
  
"What should we be looking out for?" Yusuf asked, warily. "Suicide bombers? A militarized tank? A field of landmines?"  
  
"No," Arthur said. "Cobb's the best in the business. He doesn't go for the obvious."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Think of this as a hunting game," Arthur said. "Cobb's a vampire, and you're the prey. First, he needs to lure you in, get you to voluntarily invite him into the house."  
  
The sun glinted off the top of a roof, a too-bright flare that made Arthur avert his eyes. His next step forward was slow, measured. "It's going to be subtle," he added, and raised a hand to block Yusuf's path. "So subtle you don't realize he's got you trapped until--" Then the landscape glimmered in front of their eyes, sunlight staccatoed over metal shillings, bouncing off glass, filling their vision, and suddenly the sound of the ocean disappeared; when Arthur blinked again they were in the middle of a desert. "Until you're already there," he finished.  
  
"Impressive," Yusuf said, as he dropped his hand from his eyes.  
  
"And it's all his subconscious, so he doesn't even realize he's doing it," Arthur said absently. He wondered how long it would be till nightfall, when he could try tracking their location by the stars.   
  
"I can't imagine the damage he can cause when he _is_ trying," Yusuf muttered.  
  
"Trust me," Arthur said. "You don't want to. Come on, we need to get going."  
  
It's strange, Arthur thinks, that that's exactly what he should be saying now, too.  
  
He should be saying a lot of things.  
  
"Do you?" he asks, instead.   
  
"Miss dreaming?" Cobb says. He shakes his head, mouth tugged up in a strange, pensive smile. "Not as often as you'd think."  
  
A sudden burst of noise pierces the silence then, and Cobb sits up, alarmed. "What was that?"  
  
"Music," Arthur says dully, but he doesn't take his eyes off Cobb. They're running out of time. This can't go on. "Cobb--"  
  
"What?" Cobb says distractedly, still looking around for the source.   
  
"There's something we need to discuss."  
  
The music's barely faded before James lets out a shrill cry from inside the house, and Cobb winces. "Hold on a second," he says, on his feet before Arthur can even think to stop him. "James? Sweetheart?"   
  
Arthur leans up on his elbows and twists around to see James huddled into Cobb's side, face turned into Cobb's shirt. This, Arthur thinks suddenly, this is what James is missing. James, who is real and alive and already one parent down--this is what he's missing. And every minute Cobb spends here is a minute he could be up there rectifying that.  
  
Arthur presses the heels of his palms against his eyes.  
  
But hysterics have never been his area of expertise, and by the time he hears the tell-tale creek of the glass doors sliding open behind him, he's steady again, resolute.  
  
"Everything okay in there?" he asks, without looking up.   
  
"Everything's fine," Cobb says. He sounds amused, and it still catches Arthur off-guard, that Cobb's starting to sound like himself again, starting to sound like before. "He asked for you."  
  
That's a second blow Arthur doesn't see coming. "What?"  
  
Then Cobb's settling in behind him, bracketing Arthur between the heat of his thighs, and that's strike three. "Cobb--"  
  
"My son just asked me if Arthur can tuck him in tomorrow, because Arthur knows _way_ more about worms than I do."  
  
Cobb's temple brushes up against Arthur's cheek with each word, and his breath is hot on Arthur's skin, and there is nothing in his voice save warm affection. Arthur feels drunk on it already, on the heat needling at his skin as Cobb leans even closer.   
  
"We've been planning a mutiny," Arthur hears himself say, thickly.  
  
"Hmm," Cobb says, and presses his mouth to Arthur's neck, soft and teasing. "Telling me that probably wasn't the best idea."   
  
"Cobb," Arthur says, and then he's tipping his head back, and Cobb's moving to meet him, fitting their mouths together. It's a chaste kiss until it isn't, until Cobb's worked Arthur's lips apart, and all Arthur can breathe, taste, _feel_ is Cobb. It's a heady sensation, one that leaves him insensible to anything but Cobb and the _need_ burning in his blood.  
  
Then Cobb reaches between them to palm Arthur through his jeans, and the sharp breath Cobb steals from his mouth leaves him dizzy. Cobb keeps kissing him, his mouth, the underside of his jaw, his neck, his shoulder, and Arthur feels each one like a sharp jerk in his gut. He lets out a long, low moan when Cobb finally gets his jeans open, doesn't even try to bite it back, and he can feel Cobb's smirk against his skin.  
  
"Shut up," Arthur says, but it comes out breathless, and he loses what little credibility he has left when Cobb twists his wrist, and he drops his head back onto Cobb's shoulder, arching into him. It's been so _long_.  
  
Cobb doesn't even pause, just hums a little, low in his throat, and works Arthur a touch faster. Arthur's breathing is ragged and shallow as he pushes his hips into Cobb's hand, and Cobb leans in to swallow the quiet, helpless noise he makes. Arthur wants - he _needs_ more friction, more heat, more - just _more_.  
  
He's already shaking, and his lips feel raw and used, every part of his body _burning_ where Cobb's touching him, _fuck_ , this isn't - he's not -- he can't even imagine, if he looks half as fucking wrecked as he _feels_ \--  
  
"Jesus," Cobb whispers, and Arthur's stomach clenches at the wonder he hears in Cobb's voice. "Jesus, Arthur."   
  
And then Cobb's dipping his head, leaving a trail of hot, wet kisses in the hollow of Arthur's throat, skating his free hand over Arthur's neck, his jaw, as his fingers work Arthur fast and steady--  
  
Arthur sets his jaw as he comes, his bare feet curling into the grass. Cobb's right there behind him, mouth pressed against Arthur's collarbone like they're both stifling sound.  
  
Cobb's nothing but a fuzz of color when Arthur opens his eyes again, sated and boneless. He tries to reach for Cobb, but Cobb just shakes his head, leans down and kisses him again.   
  
"It's okay," Cobb murmurs, with a warm, indulgent smile. "We have time." His mouth brushes the shell of Arthur's ear when he adds, quietly, "And I have plans for you, believe me."  
  
Arthur feels his mouth go dry, and he doesn't protest again.   
  
"I'll be right back," Cobb adds, before he slips away. "I'm just going inside to get cleaned up."  
  
Arthur's too distracted by the thought of what Cobb's plans entail, of when they can be executed, to stop him. He sees Cobb's face, pupils blown black, hair damp and tangled against the sheets; hears the same wonder in Cobb's voice, wonder and desire and _now, Christ, Arthur_ ; smells Cobb's scent on his own skin.  
  
It's with a start that he realizes that he's thinking impossible things, wanting them even more. Then he sees that it's been twenty minutes since Cobb disappeared inside, that Cobb isn't back, and Arthur works past the inertia to force himself to his feet.   
  
When he goes inside, he finds Cobb asleep at his desk, hunched over the blueprints like he's been working at them for hours.  
  
  
  
Whether or not Arthur wants to decipher what it means, this is serious now. He's thinking about the future as though there's going to be one, and that's not - this was never supposed to happen. Any of this.  
  
He corners Cobb after the kids leave for school that day, watching as he rifles through his closet. Cobb doesn't startle when Arthur clears his throat, doesn't even look up except to say, "Green or blue tie?"  
  
It's not an unusual occurrence, but today, the ease and familiarity in Cobb's voice makes Arthur ache.  
  
"Cobb," he manages to say, past the dread stuck in his throat. "We need to talk."  
  
"I'm going to be late for a meeting," Cobb says, still studying his ties. "Can it wait?"  
  
It's an out, and Arthur nearly takes it. But then the thought of this, of a million scenes just like it, flash behind his closed eyelids, and it doesn't feel out of his reach, not like it used to; it feels--   
  
"No," Arthur says, steeling himself as he shakes his head. "I should have told you this when I first moved in. It can't wait anymore."  
  
Cobb turns to him, then, finally, forehead creased. "Arthur--"  
  
"It wasn't five years," Arthur says, before he loses his nerve. He's faced down international terrorists, militarized tanks, worse, but it's never been like this. He's never had more to lose waking up than staying under. "I know it felt like it, but--"  
  
"I know," Cobb interrupts.   
  
Arthur's heart stops. "What?"  
  
Cobb takes a step forward, then seems to think better of it. "I got your messages, Arthur," he says, at last, scrubbing a hand over his face. Suddenly, he's the Cobb Arthur recognizes from inception all over again, shoulders weighted down by guilt he thinks he deserves. "I should have called, made you come to visit, to see the kids, but I - I didn't know what to say."   
  
For once, Arthur finds himself speechless. "I left messages?" he hears himself ask, eventually.  
  
Cobb frowns at his carpet. "Every other month, almost." He lets out a quiet laugh, almost brittle. "It didn't feel like five years, Arthur. It felt like ten. But I wasn't surprised you stayed away." He looks up, then, and the wonder Arthur sees in his face makes his pulse stumble. "I was surprised you came back."  
  
"Cobb," Arthur says, and nearly laughs himself. Oh god, they've gotten everything so _wrong_. "Where else was I going to go?"  
  
The sentiment doesn't seem to surprise Cobb, but the lack of surprise _does_. "I'm sorry," Cobb says, after a moment. "About - on the Fischer job, I was out of line. I should've told you--"  
  
"Forget it, Cobb," Arthur says, shaking his head. Ariadne got her answers because she'd demanded them, probed unrelentingly till Cobb gave in. Perhaps, Arthur thinks, he should've done the same, should've asked, should've combed through every single detail before agreeing to the plan, but he hadn't thought he'd had to. Neither had Cobb. The only difference is: Cobb had trusted his point man to do his job; Arthur had trusted his friend to tell him... not everything, but enough. Arthur's always made stupid decisions when it comes to Cobb, and that's nobody's fault but his own. "It's over."  
  
"No," Cobb says. "No, Arthur, I should've--"  
  
"I said forget it, Cobb," Arthur repeats, gentle but firm. "You thought you could handle it. I know how that feels."  
  
Cobb raises his head at that, and catches Arthur's eye, holds his gaze for a long, long moment. Arthur doesn't know what Cobb's looking for - sincerity, forgiveness, maybe a combination of both - but he must find it, because he turns back to his closet with a nod. "So that's what you couldn't wait to talk about?" Cobb asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. "That's what couldn't wait till after my meeting?"  
  
"You know how I feel about oversharing," Arthur says, dryly, with lightness he doesn't feel. But when Cobb smiles, it's the most relieved Arthur's seen him, and Arthur can't make himself take that away. "You can still make the meeting if you hurry," he says instead, nodding towards the closet. "And you should go with the blue."  
  
  
  
"You're cutting it too close," Yusuf warns him, the next time they see each other.   
  
Arthur says nothing.  
  
They're both sitting in Arthur's kitchen, and Yusuf's stirring his tea, placid as always, but they've been through too much together for Arthur not to recognize that it's all a façade. There's no missing the strain lurking in Yusuf's eyes.  
  
"This was your idea," Yusuf says. "You said we would integrate ourselves, gain Cobb's trust, and then tell him the truth."  
  
"I've been doing that," Arthur says, impassively.  
  
Yusuf laughs, but there's no humor in it. "That isn't all you've been doing," he mutters. "It's not going to work, Arthur. You may cook their meals and share their house, but you can't just take over--"  
  
It's like a kick he isn't expecting, and Arthur feels his breath knock right out of him. "You think I'm trying to replace Mal?" he growls, voice dropping low and feral. "You don't know a _goddamn_ thing, Yusuf."  
  
Yusuf won't back down. "I'm not going to go another round with you like a _child_ ," he says, angrily. "I _told_ you you were getting too comfortable here, and I'm done waiting for you to admit it! We have two weeks till we're supposed to leave, and if you won't tell Cobb the truth, _I will_."  
  
Arthur's hands are shaking, panic and fury twisting in his gut like white-hot knives, and he hears his chair screech across the floorboards as he stands. "Stay out of it," he snarls. "It's none of your business."  
  
"Like _hell_ it isn't!" Yusuf roars, slamming a hand down onto the table. "You dragged me down here with you, Arthur! You put me through a year of Limbo! I'd say it bloody well _is_ my business!"   
  
Arthur opens his mouth to retort, but then Yusuf's letting out of yelp of pain and jerking away. His left hand is red and raw, angry blisters already appearing on the grooves between his fingers. The teapot has vanished, and hot tea is rippling across the table, spilling off the sides to pool at Arthur's feet, close but not quite touching him.   
  
"Christ," Yusuf hisses, wringing his wrists, and Arthur fights through his shock to reach for him, saying, "Here, let me--"  
  
He stops short when he sees the rest of Yusuf's arm. It's covered in bruises and paper cuts and tiny scratches, blisters blooming around them. "Yusuf," Arthur breathes. "What the hell?"  
  
It's like walking through the desert all over again, trudging for days through the heat as their feet rubbed raw and blistered against the sand. And yet, all they'd seen was acres of nothing stretching out around them, vast and endless. The air was still, and the heatwave was stifling, seeping into their skin. Their clothes were dry by then, and Arthur's rubbed stiff and scratchy against him. Inhaling took almost too much effort. He couldn't tell if the sun was sinking, and Yusuf's steps had become steadily heavier behind him, the only sound filling the silence between them.  
  
"How much further?" Yusuf asked, at last, exhausted.   
  
"I don't know, Yusuf," Arthur said, wearily. "Does it look like I have the blueprints to Cobb's subconscious?"  
  
"I'd settle for a map of this desert," Yusuf said. "Regardless, there's no need to get testy."  
  
"I'm not--" Arthur snapped, but he cut himself off before he could finish, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, your guess is as good as mine. We don't have exact coordinates, but I'd prepare for a long journey. And an arduous one."   
  
He'd long discovered that things with Cobb often were.   
  
"Not so arduous, perhaps," Yusuf said then, and when Arthur frowned, he gestured towards the horizon with a tilt of his head, smiling. "Where there is cacti, there is water."   
  
When Arthur followed Yusuf's line of sight, he saw the row of cacti too, a few yards away, just barely visible over a nearby dune. It was a small, unexpected mercy, which only made Arthur more hesitant as he followed Yusuf's lead. It was very unlike Cobb. The sand sunk beneath their feet as they trudged up the hill, then shifted, abruptly, as the wind picked up, swirling dust around his ankles. Arthur was suddenly acutely aware of the fact that they had gotten no closer to their destination than they were fifteen minutes ago. Which could only mean--   
  
_Paradox,_ Arthur realized, belatedly, and grabbed for Yusuf's arm. "Yusuf, wait!"  
  
But he was still a beat too late, and Yusuf let out a shrill yell as he fell. The path ahead of them crumbled into nothing. "Fuck!" Arthur swore. "Motherfucking--"  
  
All at once, he found himself buried him knee-deep in sand, the wind howling in his ears, a growing monster spitting sand in his face. Arthur raised an arm to his face, shielding it, and scrambled with his free hand for something to hold onto, _anything_ , as he was dragged towards the edge of the drop.   
  
He was fighting so hard against it he almost missed the muffled cry of, "Arthur!" from somewhere below him.   
  
_Yusuf_ , Arthur thought, and chanced a glance down, his eyes stinging with the effort of keeping them open, and--Jesus fucking _Christ_.   
  
There was a fucking twelve-foot hourglass rising up out of the sand, and Yusuf was _trapped in it_. He was slamming his fists against the glass, pressing his full body against it, trying to get it to budge, but the sand was rising, fast, already had him swallowed from the shoulders down.  
  
"Fuck," Arthur snarled, again, clenching his fists. "God _dammit_ , Cobb!"  
  
And then he grit his teeth and dove off the cliff.   
  
It wasn't a short drop, but Arthur didn't waste his time trying to catch his breath when he landed. He rolled to his feet once he hit the ground, but barely righted himself before the wind swept them out from under him again. He looked up, blindly, trying to figure out how much time he had, how long before Yusuf--  
  
The sand had risen up to Yusuf's neck, and Yusuf was shouting, a litany of garbled words Arthur couldn't make out against the desert storm. He looked _terrified_.   
  
Arthur's heart was thrashing against his ribs as he pushed to his feet again, a war-cry he hadn't known he'd need. He jerked his gun out of its holster, and fired off three rounds near the base of the hourglass before it was ripped out of his hands.  
  
But the glass was too damn thick to be punctured that way, and Yusuf clawed at it, helplessly, as Arthur casted about for something else. Yusuf was going to _drown_ if he didn't do something, he fucking needed--  
  
A machete materialized in his hands.  
  
Arthur didn't question it. He couldn't even see Yusuf when he swung, blindly, once, twice.   
  
A sudden outpour of sand knocked him off his feet, and Arthur braced himself for impact.  
  
Impact that never came.  
  
When he opened his eyes again, he almost didn't recognize where he was. The wind had stopped, and the sand was motionless beneath him, though the heat was just as oppressive as before. He sat up, cautiously, and was greeted by the sight of Yusuf down on all fours a few feet away. He was retching onto the sand, but he was still with Arthur. Still alive.  
  
"Jesus," Arthur said. His lungs were burning, and he threw an arm over his face as he collapsed onto his back. When he saw Cobb again, he thought, he was going to set Philippa's copy of _Aladdin_ on fire.  
  
It's been seven months since they found Cobb now. Seven months since Arthur first moved in, and _Aladdin_ is still sitting innocuously on the bookcase, next to the television set.   
  
Arthur hasn't forgotten the terror that'd been written all over Yusuf's face in the hourglass; or the relief that had taken its place, after. And yet, the desert seems little more than an unfortunate detour compared to this, to what he knows he's supposed to do.  
  
"Yusuf," Arthur says again. "How--"  
  
"It's not uncommon in my house," Yusuf says, left hand already curled gingerly against his chest. "Especially after I've spent time with you. Just another reminder Cobb doesn't actually want me here."   
  
"Let me get the bandages," Arthur says, quietly.  
  
But Yusuf only moves towards the door, shaking his head. "Medical attention isn't what I need from you," he says, frostily.  
  
He leaves before Arthur can stop him.  
  
  
  
When faced with unpleasant situations, Arthur's come to realize that most people turn to comfort food.  
  
Philippa adds a pint of strawberry ice cream to the grocery list they leave tacked to the fridge, James asks for a square of chocolate every half hour, and Cobb sends him text messages asking if they have any Famous Amos cookies lying around the house.  
  
Arthur, on the other hand, indulges in routine.  
  
He starts with the living room: vacuums the rugs, wipes the windows, straightens the pillows on the couch; then moves on to the kitchen: does the dishes, cleans the sinks, thaws the beef in preparation for dinner; then the backyard: mows the lawn, hangs the laundry, weeds the garden.  
  
He pulls off his gloves when he hears the clock chime two. He should start marinating the beef.  
  
When he looks down the road, Yusuf's house is silent, his doors shut, his curtains drawn, and Arthur wonders when he let himself become the perfect suburban housewife.   
  
_You can't just take over,_ he hears Yusuf say.   
  
Arthur closes his eyes and breathes in the too-fresh scent of grass. It's the middle of July, and there are daffodils blooming in the garden. Arthur puts his gloves away, and starts walking over to Yusuf's.  
  
He doesn't need to knock, doesn't even need a key, and he ducks out of the way of the throwing ax that hurtles straight at him when he walks through the doorway. It lodges into the wall beside his head. "Jesus," he says, as he pulls it free, testing its weight in his hands. "And you think Cobb's paranoid."  
  
"Well, he wasn't bloody wrong, was he?"  
  
Arthur almost startles at the voice. When he turns, Eames is in Yusuf's armchair. He twitches his fingers in a mocking wave, cocksure grin growing as he absorbs Arthur's shocked expression.  
  
"Hello, Arthur."  
  
"Mr. Eames," Arthur says when he finds his voice.  
  
"I do believe I'm witnessing Arthur at a loss for words," Eames says, clearly pleased with himself. "Yusuf!"  
  
Arthur's still gaping when Yusuf walks out of the kitchen, what Arthur can only assume is a robot following behind him, somehow balancing a pot of tea, milk and sugar, and a plate of cookies in its three arms. "Arthur," Yusuf says. He doesn't sound surprised at all.   
  
"It seems he isn't as thrilled to see me as you were, darling," Eames says, eyebrows quirking wickedly as he leans back in his chair. "Though I imagine it would be rather difficult for anyone else to be quite so enthusiastic."  
  
Yusuf doesn't even acknowledge he's there. "Ignore him," he says, with a long-suffering sigh. "He's just a projection." To the robot, he waves a hand and adds, "Here, please."   
  
The robot promptly collapses into itself, and when Arthur blinks again, there's a coffee table in its place, the plate of biscuits just within Eames' reach. "There," Yusuf says to him. "Now you can keep your mouth occupied."   
  
Eames laughs delightedly as he reaches over, fitting a hand to Yusuf's hip. "Not now, love," he says, and suddenly his voice dips, low and smoky with so much promise that Arthur has to look away. "We have company."  
  
"You're incorrigible," Yusuf says, but he doesn't sound upset, and Arthur doesn't even know where to begin. "Get out."   
  
Eames grins, crookedly, but he rolls to his feet, and stops to press his mouth to Yusuf's temple on his way out of the room. Arthur can't hear what Eames says next, but he can see Eames' eyes over the top of Yusuf's head, green and gleaming in the sunlight, can see the way Yusuf is fighting not to smile.  
  
"Right, then," Eames says, as he straightens. "Don't keep him too long, Arthur."   
  
"Yusuf," Arthur says weakly, after Eames disappears into Yusuf's bedroom. "He's - but why--"  
  
"Did you think you were the only one who got lonely?" Yusuf asks, but it's not unkind, and Arthur feels guilt well up in his stomach as he turns to him.   
  
"I didn't know you and Eames--" he says, a little helplessly.  
  
"For a little while," Yusuf says, shrugging. "When he lived in Mombasa. A few times after, when he came through the area."  
  
"But you're not," Arthur says, and trails off when he can't figure out the rest of his sentence.  
  
"We enjoy each other's company," Yusuf says, and there's only the smallest edge to his smile that suggests they enjoy much more than that. "And postcards, when that is lacking."  
  
Arthur glances up at Yusuf's closed bedroom door, letting it all sink in. "But how--"  
  
"I'm not sure myself," Yusuf says, shaking his head with a chuckle. "You know Eames. He showed up one evening and made it very clear he was here to stay. I can't say it was an unwelcome surprise."  
  
It's so much like Eames that Arthur allows himself a smile. "When did you realize he was a projection?"  
  
"It took me some hours," Yusuf confesses, and pauses to sip at his tea. "We were otherwise occupied at first. But eventually I started asking him questions he couldn't answer, because I couldn't, either."  
  
There is no gentle way to ask his next question, so Arthur doesn't try. "Can you control him?"  
  
"Not well," Yusuf admits. "He responds to my requests in an approximation of the way my subconscious believes the real Eames would, and that is often quite unpredictable to me."  
  
It's like the possibility of Mal all over again, and Arthur feels completely blindsided. "Yusuf, do we have anything to worry about?"  
  
"I don't know," Yusuf admits, with a backwards glance over his shoulder. "Even if I could vouch for Eames, there's no telling who else might eventually turn up, and it seems the longer we spend here, the stronger our subconscious grows."   
  
"So what does that mean for us?"  
  
"It means the sooner we get out of here, the better," Yusuf says, calmly. "And since that was the original plan, I doubt there's any real cause for worry."   
  
Arthur's about to say--something, more, but Yusuf negates the need for it when he smiles, serenely, and says, "Tea?"  
  
It's only then that Arthur realizes Yusuf's hand is bandaged, and he remembers why he came. "Sure," he says, and takes a cup from Yusuf, watching as Yusuf smiles and makes gentle, cooing noises at the table. It's been a year, Arthur thinks. It's been a year, and Yusuf's been alone. "Did you build that?"  
  
"I did," Yusuf affirms. "And its twelve companions." He waves his hand, gesturing around the room, and Arthur watches as various pieces of furniture shimmer briefly into compact, metallic parts, before resuming their original state. "Unlike Eames, they act only on my command. Our unconscious projections seem to operate on separate mechanisms from what we create when conscious that way."  
  
Arthur doesn't try to hide how impressed he is. "There's also the extra security system at the door."  
  
"Ah," Yusuf says, smiling. "You liked that, did you? I'm very fond of it myself."  
  
"As fond as you are of Eames?" Arthur adds, unable to help himself.   
  
"And my four cats," Yusuf agrees, eyes lighting up in a way that's altogether too familiar.  
  
He'd looked the same way once Arthur had told him about dreaming up the machete, and they'd both realized the implication behind that: "Yusuf, I think we can build here."  
  
The machete had disappeared, but Arthur was suddenly much less worried. There was a good chance he'd be able to do it again, once he figured out how. And details, after all, were part of his domain.   
  
That, evidently, had been the right thing to say, because they spent the next few days creating. Yusuf had taken to it like a duck to water, and while Arthur busied himself experimenting with weapons and shelter and, sometimes, Penrose stairs, he developed wild, novel devices: raincoats made of UV-ray resistant plastic; an anti-dehydration watch that they pulled moisture from the air and released it into their bodies; a cap with sunglasses attached to the brim with an in-built compass and a toggle for night-vision.   
  
Each creation delighted Yusuf more than the last, and when he laughed, or let loose a triumphant shout, it was worlds away from the man who'd almost suffocated to death in an hourglass, the man who'd lain in the sand for near on an hour, pale and shaken.  
  
Yusuf's gadgets made it much easier to adapt to their new environment, and they spent the next few months in relative comfort, trying to figure out a way to get to Cobb.  
  
It was only when Yusuf conjured up the first of his four kittens that Arthur was struck with the idea.  
  
"A homing pigeon," Yusuf said. He held his watch thoughtfully to his chin, then tapped it twice, and it threw a fine spray of mist up over his face. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to try."  
  
The pigeon pecked at Arthur's finger. "At least we'll know if it doesn't," Arthur said. "It can't get any worse than this."  
  
"Hmm," Yusuf said, and watched as Arthur set the bird free. It weaved unsteadily in the air, and only narrowly escaped flying into a row of cacti. Yusuf cringed. "Do you really think this will work?"   
  
"I don't know," Arthur admitted, pulling his cap over his head as he tracked the pigeon's progress. The arrow on the compass at the very corner of his vision pointed northwest. "Maybe."  
  
"Well, then," Yusuf said, pulling the hood of his raincoat firmly over his head. "It's time we bring Cobb back."  
  
The homing pigeon had worked, Arthur thinks now, mirthlessly. But bringing Cobb back is turning out to be easier said than done.   
  
Yusuf pats his table, then, fondly. "I've enjoyed myself here," he muses. "Very little concrete scientific progress has been made, but the ability to build whatever I want and have it work has been incredibly satisfying." He pauses momentarily. "What I don't understand is why Cobb would want to stay."  
  
"You just said--"  
  
"Yes," Yusuf concedes, "But I can do all of this in my regular dreamscape, without worrying about losing my mind." He pauses for a moment, then continues more slowly, "There must be something else keeping him here - someone--"  
  
"It's not about Mal," Arthur hears himself say.  
  
Yusuf frowns.   
  
"It's not _just_ about Mal," Arthur amends.  
  
"But Ariadne--"  
  
"Ariadne saw Cobb at his worst," Arthur says. "Self-destructive, desperate, lost. And she wasn't here long enough to know what it's like. She hasn't been building long enough to know how it feels." Arthur lets out a breath as Yusuf leans forward in his chair. "I saw Cobb when he came out of it the first time, with Mal. When he told me he'd been down here fifty years, I thought--he's never going to want to go under again. Fifty years, Yusuf. For most people, it would've been enough. But for Cobb?" Arthur shakes his head. "No. He was addicted."  
  
"To the building?" Yusuf asks.  
  
"No," Arthur says. "That was only a part of it."  
  
"And the other?"  
  
Arthur can see it in his head, like a photograph he doesn't remember taking: a stranger wearing Cobb's face, too busy trying to explain what they'd seen, what they'd _made_ , to notice the ghost with Mal's eyes watching warily as Cobb's fingers closed over her own.   
  
"You've seen how eager he is to share his work," Arthur says, quietly. "He doesn't just want to build. He could do that anywhere. What Cobb wants is to share that with other people, to build _with_ them. And Limbo's the only place you can do that."  
  
"But--he's not creating anything," Yusuf says. His gaze flickers to his bandaged hand, then back at Arthur. "Not intentionally, at least. Your theory doesn't hold."   
  
It pains Arthur to say it, but: "Maybe his subconscious knows there's the possibility. Maybe that's enough."  
  
Understanding ripples over Yusuf's face. "You think he knows he's in Limbo. You think he wants to stay."  
  
"On some level, perhaps," Arthur says, tiredly. "But this is guesswork, not a hypothesis; I can't test it."  
  
They lapse into silence for a moment.  
  
"You have to tell him, Arthur," Yusuf says at last, expression grim. "If you're right, if this is his subconscious playing tricks on him, you have to snap him out of it. You have to convince him there's more for him in the real world than there is here."  
  
"I know," Arthur says. "I'm trying."  
  
"Well," Eames says, as he pops his head out of the bedroom. "Time's almost up, so you're obviously going to have to try a little harder, aren't you?"   
  
  
  
Having Eames tell him that he's out of time, projection or not, is catalyst enough for Arthur to steel his resolve. Cobb's car is in the driveway when he gets back to the house, and Arthur barely waits to get indoors before he's calling, "Cobb? Do you have a minute? There's something I need to--"   
  
Philippa barrels out of the kitchen and straight into him before he can finish. James is right behind her, gunning straight for Arthur's hip. They're both _beaming_. "Arthur!" James trills. "Arthur, guess what?"  
  
"Uh," Arthur says, momentarily distracted. He wraps an arm absently around James' shoulders when James begins to slide down his thigh. "What?"  
  
"We got into the school play!"  
  
"Both of us!"  
  
"I'm going to be a mermaid!"  
  
"And I'm a crab!"   
  
"And we're gonna have costumes and everything!"  
  
Arthur catches himself on the brink of a laugh. "That's very exciting. When do you go on?"  
  
"Next week," Philippa says. She's practically bouncing.  
  
"It's a little soon," Cobb says, and Arthur looks up to see him standing in the kitchen doorway, hands in his pockets, watching them with fond amusement. "But a couple of kids are down with chicken pox, and they needed extra help."  
  
"I get to be a crab!" James crows. "It's gonna be _awesome_!"  
  
"You're gonna come watch us, right, Arthur?" Philippa asks, still flushed and wide-eyed with excitement.   
  
"Um, _duh_ ," James chimes in before Arthur can answer. "He has to come!"   
  
"I don't know, James," Arthur says, with a quick glance at Cobb. "It might not be appropriate."  
  
James goes completely rigid against him. "Oh," he says, in a small, small voice. "You mean you're not coming?"  
  
He sounds so much like he did the day Arthur first got here that it makes Arthur's chest ache.   
  
Cobb had been unsurprised to see Arthur on his doorstep, and James had been nothing short of _thrilled_ , had thrown himself around Arthur's legs and refused to budge till Arthur, albeit hesitantly, picked him up.  
  
"Arthur!" James trilled, against his shoulder, and Arthur felt his mouth curve despite his best efforts against it.  
  
Philippa peeked out at him from behind Cobb, shy but smiling, and offered Arthur a small wave when he glanced at her. The smile she aimed at Yusuf was warier, but Cobb wasn't turning them away, and Arthur was inclined to count that a small victory in itself.   
  
"Well," Cobb said, then. "Do you want to come in or are you just going to stand in my garden all day?"  
  
"Oh thank god," Yusuf said, collapsing in the doorway.  
  
But Arthur hesitated. They were without a plan.   
  
("He might shoot us on sight," Yusuf had said, when Arthur suggested one. "So I don't see the merit in that."   
  
And Arthur, after everything they'd been through, had been inclined to agree.)  
  
 _I should tell him,_ Arthur thought, then. _Avoid any collateral damage._  
  
Except James snuffled against his neck before he could speak, then, eyes wide and wary as he said, "You don't want to come in?"   
  
And Arthur heard himself say, instead, "That depends on your dad."  
  
He could feel Cobb's gaze on him, then, curious and appraising, could feel Yusuf's incredulous one, and he added, "I have a job to do some time in the next couple of months, and I came to talk to your dad about it."  
  
"Oh," James said, and glanced over at Cobb. "Are you going to talk about it, Daddy?"   
  
"Arthur," Cobb began, guardedly.   
  
"I could use your eye," Arthur said, quietly, watching as Cobb looked away.  
  
He'd known, in that moment, exactly what Cobb would say next.  
  
But when Cobb says, now, "There shouldn't be a problem; it's family only," Arthur doesn't see that coming at all.   
  
James lets out a loud, delighted whoop, and Philippa squeals. "That means you're coming, right?"   
  
"It appears that way," Arthur says, eventually.  
  
"I told you so," James singsongs, triumphantly, and Phil rolls her eyes and smacks him on the arm, grinning the whole time.  
  
When Arthur looks over, he sees James' expression mirrored on Cobb's face, and it's impossible not to laugh.  
  
  
  
"No," Yusuf says, flatly, when Arthur goes to see him the next day.   
  
"Yusuf," Arthur tries again. "They're just--"   
  
"No," Yusuf repeats. "Arthur, listen to yourself. They're _projections_. What you're asking--"  
  
"What Yusuf means," Eames chimes in, "in a very roundabout way, is that you're being ridiculous."  
  
"Eames," Yusuf says, sharply.  
  
Eames subsides, but he arches an eyebrow at Arthur, daring him to disagree. Arthur ignores him. "I know there's a deadline," he says to Yusuf. "And I know it's coming up, but there's time for this, Yusuf. The kids aren't coming up with this by themselves. These are things Cobb wants to do for them."  
  
"And he can do them when he's awake," Yusuf says. "Arthur--"   
  
"It's a school play," Arthur interjects. "It's _one_ play. You don't know what he's missed up there, Yusuf. Don't take this from him."  
  
Yusuf pinches the bridge of his nose, frowning, and Arthur adds, more quietly, "I came to you with this. I don't want to regret it."   
  
"Arthur," Eames sounds both scandalized and impressed. "You _manipulative_ \--"  
  
Yusuf puts a hand on Eames' knee and shakes his head. "You get this one last week," he says, eventually.  
  
Arthur lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "One week," he repeats.  
  
"And you have to tell him _right after_."   
  
"Right after," Arthur echoes.   
  
Yusuf nods, once. "It's settled, then."  
  
"Thank you," Arthur says.  
  
The look he gains from Yusuf in reply is dry and unimpressed. "Let's not pretend you wouldn't have done it, regardless of what I said."  
  
"Yeah," Arthur agrees, somberly. "But I wouldn't have liked it."  
  
  
  
The children get Arthur involved in _everything_ , from running lines to practicing songs to costume fittings.  
  
Six days, as it turns out, isn't a lot of time when you're dealing with two overzealous children impatient for their big stage debut to arrive. This is especially true when there are costumes involved. Costumes that are continuously in need of mending. (James Cobb is notoriously careless with his outfit.)  
  
There are the songs to be memorized on top of that, and as a mermaid, Phil has about two lines of dialogue. She spends hours practicing twelve hundred variations of those lines, asking Arthur's opinion after each one.  
  
Arthur gets through each day the same way he does any other seemingly insurmountable task: stoic and methodical, one impossible task at a time.   
  
He catches Cobb watching him once or twice, from his work desk or the living room couch, sees him chuckle at the endless amount of taffeta Arthur's entangled in, the four different bobby pins he has in his mouth at any given time. "You could give me a hand," Arthur suggests wryly, once.  
  
"I could," Cobb concedes. "But it's so much more entertaining this way."  
  
For the next two days, Cobb's coffee is inexplicably cold by the time he gets to it at breakfast.  
  
  
  
"It's here!" James announces at the dining table, the morning of the play. "It's here, it's here, it's here!"  
  
Philippa can barely sit still, and she beams at Cobb over her bowl of cereal. "I'm going to be a _mermaid_ ," she says, practically glowing.  
  
"Nuh uh!" James declares. "You're going to be the _best_ mermaid! And I'm gonna be the bestest crab! Right, Dad?"  
  
There's more milk on the table than in James' bowl by this point, the way he's vibrating in his seat, and for once, Arthur lets it slide, hiding his smile in his breakfast.  
  
"Totally the bestest," Cobb says, straight-faced. He bumps James' tiny fist with his own, then wraps an arm around Phil's shoulders. "And the prettiest."  
  
"And the _awesomest_!" James says, waving his spoon in the air.   
  
Phil giggles when Cobb leans over to press a kiss into her hair, and Arthur doesn't know which one of them looks more thrilled.  
  
"Come on," he says, then, averting his gaze. "We've got a play to get ready for."  
  
  
  
"That was _awesome_!" James says, later that night, as Arthur crosses the threshold into the house.   
  
It's not the first time he's said it that evening, it's not even the hundredth, but it's the first time he's mumbling it into Arthur's shoulder, still in his crab costume, his head heavy where it's tucked against Arthur's breastbone.   
  
"That was _way_ awesome," Arthur murmurs, quietly, one hand low and warm on James' back, and he's rewarded with a sleepy laugh against his skin.   
  
Behind him, Phil's wilting too, already listing into Cobb's side. He nods when Arthur catches his eye, and Arthur leans over so Cobb can ghost a kiss over James' temple. "Think it's past someone's bedtime," Arthur says, then, and James barely even puts up a token protest as Arthur carries him into his bedroom. He's asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, barely even stirs as Arthur takes off his shoes and costume.   
  
"G'nigh," James slurs, into the sheets, as Arthur runs a quick hand through his hair.   
  
"Goodnight," Arthur says, quietly, and turns out the light.  
  
Cobb's already standing in the hallway, just outside Philippa's room, wearing a smile that Arthur hasn't seen for a while, tender and content.  
  
 _Right after,_ Arthur thinks, watching him, and right after is now.  
  
"Cobb," he says.  
  
Cobb looks at him, then, so much warmth in his smile that Arthur's voice dies in his throat. Even in the dim light, Cobb's eyes are startlingly blue. The house is silent, and the three quick steps Cobb takes to cross the distance between them echo like gunfire in Arthur's ears, like crashing thunder, or the unsteady staccato of his heart.  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says, and then he's backing Arthur into the wall, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Arthur's shirt, kissing him slow and sweet and sure. "Arthur," Cobb says again, breathlessly, when he pulls away, an eternity later.   
  
Arthur knows that look, has seen it countless times, but this is the first time it's been directed at him, and when he closes his eyes, the image burns against the back of his eyelids. A burst of heat vaults up Arthur's spine, and then Cobb's kissing him again, one hand warm on the back of Arthur's neck, the other wrapped in Arthur's tie, and Arthur lets Cobb tug him forward, lets Cobb lead him to the bedroom, lets Cobb press him back against the bed, keep him there.   
  
Cobb's never had to say anything for Arthur to understand exactly what he means.   
  
It's dark inside, nothing but a patchwork quilt of moonlight illuminating the room, but Arthur doesn't need it, neither of them do, and he barely even fumbles with the buttons on Cobb's shirt, slides out of his own when Cobb does the same.   
  
Cobb stretches long and languid above him, and Arthur's breath hitches in his throat. Arthur raises a hand to Cobb's cheek, and Cobb leans into it, no hesitation at all. There's incredulity filling Arthur's lungs as Cobb looks him over with dark, dark eyes, once, twice, wets his lips.   
  
Arthur's pulse is racing, and oh god, this is a _terrible_ idea, he shouldn't be - he can't--  
  
"Cobb," he says, on a shaky breath. "Dom--"  
  
That's when he sees it, the sudden emotion flooding Cobb's face. Arthur's heart stops.  
  
"Dom," he croaks. He wants to say _I know_ , wants to say _me too_ , but when Cobb slants his mouth over Arthur's, slow and deep, Arthur presses his hand to Cobb's chest, feels Cobb's heart thudding beneath his fingers, and knows he doesn't have to.  
  
  
  
The morning after is the day of the job. It doesn't feel different from any other day.   
  
Arthur makes breakfast. He listens as the rest of the house comes alive. He catches James before he trips over the edge of a chair. He settles him and Phil at the table. He plies Cobb with coffee. He smiles as they chatter.  
  
It doesn't feel different at all.   
  
Except--  
  
Except earlier that morning he'd woken up tucked into Cobb's side, skin to skin, and Cobb had curled an arm around him as he tried to get up, had pulled him into a slow, sleepy kiss and murmured, "Where are you going?"  
  
"The kids will be up any second," Arthur'd mumbled back, trying not to be tempted back into bed. "And I need a shower."  
  
"Isn't that strange?" Cobb had said smilingly, against Arthur's mouth. "So do I."  
  
Cobb's looking at him with that same smile now, from across the table, and _everything_ is different, because this is the last time. This is their last morning together.   
  
Arthur feels an involuntary wave of panic when Cobb reaches for seconds, because that's the cue for Phil to shuffle to her feet, for James to peek under the table to check his laces before joining her, for them to head to the front door, calling, "Bye Arthur! Bye Daddy! See you after school!" without waiting for a reply.  
  
And this is the last time he's going to be here to see it.  
  
Arthur's heart lodges in his throat as he watches them from the kitchen window, identical blonde heads tipped up into the sunlight. When they disappear around the corner, it's like he forgets how to breathe.  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says, then, and Arthur startles. "You ready to go?"  
  
This is the last time.  
  
It takes a moment, but Arthur squares his shoulders and tears his gaze from the window. "Yeah," he says. "Let's go."  
  
  
  
Yusuf meets them in a deserted back lot at LAX, already dressed in a three-piece suit, a driver's cap pulled low over his head. He walks up to the car as they pull into a space, and Arthur shakes his head as their eyes meet.  
  
Yusuf's expression darkens.  
  
"Yusuf," Cobb says, already giving orders as he slides out of the car. "Look for the car and get the driver. Arthur, you're gonna cover him. I'm going to look for Payne."   
  
For Arthur, working with Cobb again feels like getting his bearings back after losing his way, and slipping into his role is easy as breathing. He nods, and by the time Yusuf says, "Cobb," Cobb's striding away.  
  
"What are you _doing_?" Yusuf hisses, as he rounds on Arthur.  
  
"I couldn't tell him," Arthur says, tersely. "I tried, and I couldn't. Let it go."  
  
Yusuf grabs Arthur's arm, alarmed. "What are you saying? That you won't come back? That you're going to _stay_? With him?"  
  
Arthur shuts his eyes.  
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says, desperately. "You can't--"  
  
"I'm not going to stay." Just saying the words leave him feeling raw, and Arthur takes a deep breath before he goes on. "I just needed more time with him before--"  
  
"This is all the time you get, Arthur!" Yusuf fumes. "The cops could come barging into the plane any minute now! We have to get _out_."   
  
"I know," Arthur says. "I know, look, once Cobb gets back from scoping out the location--"  
  
"How long do you think that's going to take?" Yusuf asks, frustrated. "He's looking for a mark that doesn't _exist_!"  
  
There's a distant rumble in the sky, like thunder and foghorns, and Yusuf grips his shoulders, tight. "This is it, Arthur! We're out of time! Just get him back here so we can--"  
  
Yusuf stops with an abrupt gasp, and then he's slumping foward into Arthur's arms. Arthur lets out a surprised shout, and suddenly there's blood on his hands, his shirt. Arthur fumbles for his Glock, barely managing to hold onto it with his slick, wet fingers. When he looks up, he almost drops it all over again.   
  
It's Cobb, standing just a few feet away.   
  
His revolver is still smoking.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Cobb!" Arthur shouts. He doesn't lower his gun. "What the _fuck_?"  
  
Cobb doesn't answer for a second. He's looking at Arthur like he's seeing him for the first time. When he steps forward, Arthur takes the safety off his gun. "Don't fucking move," he spits. "Not until you tell me what's going on."  
  
"He'll be fine," Cobb says, calmly. "And I think I should be the one with the questions here."  
  
"What are you--"  
  
"You came to get me, didn't you?" Cobb interrupts, in that same, even tone.  
  
Arthur freezes. "What?"  
  
Cobb tilts his head a little, watching him, and takes another step closer. This time, Arthur doesn't protest. "This isn't real."  
  
Slowly, Arthur lets his arm drop. His stomach is in knots. "Cobb."  
  
"I'm still dreaming," Cobb says, inching closer still. "Because I got stuck in Limbo when I tried to get Saito out."  
  
"Cobb," Arthur says again. His hands are shaking at his side, from relief or fear or a heady mixture of both. "How did you--"  
  
"I recognized the music," Cobb says, and finally steps into his space. "I put two and two together."  
  
"I tried to tell you," Arthur says, fighting the urge to lean closer. "I wanted to tell you, but it never seemed like the right time."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"What?"  
  
Cobb shakes his head, clearly lost. "Why did you want to tell me? I thought we were happy here."  
  
"Cobb," Arthur says, and his breath stutters when he laughs. "That's not - that's never been the problem." He wraps his fingers in the collar of Cobb's shirt and presses his forehead's to Cobb's, closes his eyes when they start to burn. "I've tried to forget that this isn't real. Believe me, I've tried, but I - when I looked at the kids--" He shakes his head. "You don't want this, Cobb. Not like this."  
  
But Cobb pulls away from him, and Arthur feels dread settle in his gut. "I'm happy here, Arthur. Don't I get a choice?"  
  
"Cobb--"   
  
"I'm happy here," Cobb repeats. "We've built a life together, Arthur. Stay and live it with me."  
  
Of all the possible ways Arthur anticipated this could end, he never saw this coming. He should pull away, should move his hands from Cobb's shirt, but instead, traitorously, his fingers try to curl. And oh _god_ , he wants to say yes.   
  
"But James and Philippa--" Arthur makes himself say.  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says, fiercely, and his eyes dizzyingly dark. "Stay."   
  
And then Cobb's kissing him, hot and wet and needy, one hand curled around the back of Arthur's neck, anchoring him, and the startled sound Arthur makes dissolves into a long, low moan. Jesus, he can't - he doesn't know how to say no to Cobb. Never has. And maybe it won't be so bad, here, like this, Cobb leaning into him like he's never going to stop, like he's--  
  
Distantly, he hears someone say, "Arthur?"   
  
It sounds like it might be Cobb, but that's not - Cobb's fingers are still curled around the back of his neck, sliding up into his hair, hard and possessive.  
  
Then he feels the muzzle of a gun pressed against his ribs and his eyes jerk open.   
  
He sees Cobb first, standing by the car, looking shell-shocked.   
  
_But--_   
  
Arthur shakes himself then, and looks at the Cobb holding him ( _hostage_ , his mind supplies, his own projection is holding him fucking _hostage_ ) in slow-dawning horror.  
  
"Cobb," Arthur breathes, winded and rattled, and doesn't know which one of them he's talking to.   
  
"You know he's happier here," Cobb-with-the-gun says. "You could've been too."  
  
He shoots.  
  
  
  
Arthur wakes up gasping, both hands clasped over his abdomen as phantom pain rips through him like it's his first time facing the barrel of a gun. Yusuf and Saito are staring at him, Yusuf's mouth set in a thin, hard line.  
  
Anger, Arthur realizes, sluggishly. And it's completely justified. Yusuf doesn't even know it wasn't Cobb's subconscious back there, doesn't know it was Arthur who pulled the trigger, and it's still completely justified. But there's no time for that now, oh god, there's no _time_ \--  
  
"Put me under," he says, through a mouth that feels like cotton.  
  
Saito looks concerned. "You just woke up."  
  
" _Five seconds_ ," Arthur snarls. "Fucking put me under."  
  
This time, Yusuf doesn't offer to come with him.  
  
"I'm sorry," Arthur says to him, as he lies back down, and then he's out.  
  
  
  
Arthur doesn't waste any time on the beach.   
  
He drags himself up the shore and storms through Cobb's city, armed with purpose and two semiautomatic rifles. He can still feel the weight of Cobb's mouth - of the projection's mouth, _fuck_ \- on his own, and he's fucking _furious_.  
  
He doesn't know if any of it - anything that happened with Cobb - is real. That night in the garden, all the times that came after, _last night_ , he doesn't _know_. And it's all his own fault. He may be the best point man in the business, but he is so fucking _stupid_ for Cobb. This is the Fischer job all over again, every other job before that, Cobb not talking and Arthur not pushing him, and now he's here, with half a year's worth of memories that might not be memories at all.  
  
He's done letting Cobb set the rules. He's done playing games. He's not going through the desert or the sandstorms or the goddamn hourglass again.  
  
He wavers, briefly, when he remembers the Penrose stairs leading up to the hourglass, the way it had all felt chillingly familiar, like Cobb had pulled the blueprints for the layout straight out of Arthur's mind. Now, Arthur isn't so sure Cobb had anything to do with it.  
  
But he can't think about that, or where it leaves him, or what it means he doesn't know.   
  
So he loads his guns, goes in shooting and doesn't stop. The streets, the buildings, Arthur aims for all of it. "I'm not playing your fucking games again, Cobb!" he yells, as it rains granite and brick around him. He keeps shooting, round after round after round, at the architecture Cobb built, until the space around him is nothing but dirt and broken glass.   
  
That's when Cobb shows up.  
  
"Arthur?" he says. He looks lost, like he isn't sure how he got here.   
  
Arthur ignores the sudden, sharp twist of pain in his chest. "You're still in limbo," he says. "You need to come back."   
  
He puts three bullets in Cobb's chest.  
  
  
  
When he wakes up, the first thing Arthur does is turn to check if--  
  
Cobb's staring at him, clearly dazed, but he's awake. He's _awake_.   
  
"Cobb," Saito says, offering him a hand.  
  
Cobb doesn't take it. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his totem.   
  
"Cobb," Arthur says, before he can spin it.  
  
It's like watching a film reel, the way Cobb's shock melts into incredulity and guilt and remorse, and Arthur doesn't even need to check his die to know he's awake. _Remorse_ , he thinks, blankly, as the anger and adrenaline bleed right out of him.   
  
He's swallowing bile as he pushes to his feet, reaching with shaking hands for his coat, his briefcase, almost before he's even fully aware of what he's doing, because Cobb remembers. Cobb _remembers_ , and any chance they'd had of moving past this, of soldiering on like nothing's changed, all of that's impossible now.   
  
"Arthur," Yusuf says.  
  
"Arthur--" Cobb croaks.  
  
Arthur flinches instinctively. He can't - all he can think of is Cobb, in the hallway, the garden, against the bedroom door--  
  
Arthur shuts his eyes, listening to the roar of blood in his ears, and makes himself leave.  
  
  
  
He's the first to deplane of the four of them.  
  
He nods at the cabin crew as he passes the door, then at airport security, and he lets muscle memory take him where he's supposed to go once he's past the gates. But he falters when he's out of the terminal, and he stands on the curb for a minute, just breathing, until his vision clears again.  
  
Eames and Ariadne are long gone, and Arthur's glad. He doesn't know how to explain this, what he'd say. He's lived a year - a _year_ \- of Limbo, survived getting everything he's ever dreamed of having and then single-handedly fucking it up.   
  
Right now, he just wants to leave.  
  
Except then he hears Cobb say, "Arthur," and he turns towards the sound on instinct.   
  
Cobb's right there, bags in hand, already through customs and striding towards him.  
  
It takes a second for Arthur to register the thought. Cobb's through customs. Cobb's through _customs_. Oh god, he can go home. The children--  
  
And suddenly, instantly, Arthur realizes he was wrong. Job first, Cobb second; his priorities haven't changed at all.  
  
He's moving before Cobb can make it all the way over.  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says, as he picks up his pace. "Arthur, stop. _Stop_ , Jesus!"  
  
"Go home, Cobb," Arthur says, voice even. He doesn't even slow. "We'll talk when you're settled in."  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says. "I didn't know. Please, Arthur, just--look at me. Let's talk about this."   
  
Arthur almost laughs. "There's nothing to talk about," he says, because there isn't. "I know you didn't know. I was there. I don't need your pity."  
  
"It's not _pity_ ," Cobb snaps, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he falls into step beside Arthur. "Jesus, you came down to get me out of Limbo. _Twice_. You stayed with me for a year. You woke me up. I'm - how do I--"   
  
Arthur does stop, then. His heart is pounding, and his fists are clenched, white-knuckled, around the metal bar of his trolley. He swings around, blindly, and Cobb stops in his tracks. "Fuck you, Cobb," Arthur hisses, humiliated. "If you want to show your gratitude, you can send me a fucking thank-you card."  
  
There's a small crowd gathering now, watching them, and Cobb is already starting to fidget under the scrutiny. "Arthur," he tries again, voice notching low. "Can we not do this here? Miles is outside, let's just go back to my place and--"  
  
Arthur breathes out a short, hollow laugh. "Pretty sure I've already overstayed my welcome," he says, and turns away.   
  
"Goddammit," Cobb says, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, and Cobb's jerking him around. "Do you have to be such a fucking martyr?"   
  
"Maybe it's not all about you, Cobb," Arthur says, curtly. "Did you ever think about that? Maybe I _wanted_ to stay."  
  
"In a world where nothing was real?" Cobb asks, shaking his head in disbelief. "I know you better than that. You're so grounded you don't even need a totem."   
  
Cobb's grip is firm and warm, just like before, the day they'd argued over the damn blueprints, and Arthur has to shake his head to clear it. Maybe that wasn't Cobb at all. Maybe he'd made all of it up. He tugs himself free from Cobb and wipes a suddenly weary hand over his face. It's been a long year. "And if that's true," Arthur says. "What? It doesn't change anything."  
  
"No," Cobb says. "No, it doesn't. It just means you're an _idiot_."  
  
" _What_?"   
  
"You heard me," Cobb says. "Jesus fucking Christ, Arthur. You tried so hard to talk yourself into letting me stay in Limbo you started _projecting_ me. Your subconscious fucking turned against you. Used you. _Manipulated_ you. All to convince you to stay in a world you didn't even believe in. Because you thought that was what I wanted."  
  
It sounds unhinged right now, all of it, and the worst part is knowing that it _isn't_ , it's not out of character for him at all. Different job, same story. Arthur's more dangerous than he gives himself credit for: the lengths he'll go to for Cobb, how much he's willing to do. "You're right," he says then, because what else is there to say? "You're right, Cobb. Is that all?"  
  
Cobb lets out a low, frustrated noise. "You're missing the point."  
  
"Then tell me what the fucking point is!" Arthur snaps. "Because you've covered thank you for nothing, and I already know how fucked up you think I was. So what? What's your goddamn point?"  
  
"That it wasn't all the projection," Cobb blurts, and Arthur turns to him without meaning to.  
  
"What?"  
  
Cobb ducks his head as he wets his lips, more nervous than Arthur's ever seen him, and Arthur feels something dangerously like hope rise in his chest. "Arthur, last night -- we didn't do anything I didn't already want."  
  
Arthur remembers looking at Cobb, haloed in moonlight and shadow both, remembers how he'd felt like someone had stolen his breath away, remembers hearing, "I love you," without Cobb needing to say the words.  
  
"Cobb," Arthur manages, weakly, and still there's no missing the wonder in his voice. "I'm--"  
  
"You're coming home with me," Cobb says, firmly. "We're going to spend time with the children, I'm going to make you dinner, and then we're going to talk about this. You can do whatever you want after we're done, I won't argue. Just - please, Arthur."  
  
Cobb's hair is glinting in the sunlight, and his eyes are brighter than anything Arthur's ever seen, so earnest and hopeful it almost hurts to look at. Arthur reaches into his pocket--  
  
But Cobb curls a hand around his wrist, thumb sliding over Arthur's pulse point, warm and steady. "You don't need that," Cobb says, gently. His smile is soft, almost shy, and Arthur feels his stomach flip before settling into nerves.   
  
But it's just nerves, fearless and guilt-free, and that's how he knows. He never needed a safety net to tell him what was real before; he won't let now be any different.  
  
Arthur takes a deep breath, and lets Cobb slide their fingers together.  
  
"Arthur," Cobb says again, quieter, but Arthur feels rooted to the spot nonetheless. "Come home with me."  
  
Jesus, Arthur thinks despairingly, he's never going to learn, because right now he wants nothing more than to say _yes_.   
  
"You're impossible," he says instead, but he moves enough for Cobb to fit his briefcase on top of the trolley, and feels Cobb's palm linger, warm and open, low on his back.   
  
"Yeah," Cobb says, head ducked, apologetic save the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Luckily for me, I've never seen you walk away from a challenge."


End file.
